Sucker
by Der Traumer
Summary: What made the monster that is Tate Langdon?  A sketch of the last month of Tate's life, leading up to the shooting.  touch of Tate/OFC
1. The Split

**A/N:** 1. This piece is actually titled _Cocksucker_, but FanFiction has this policy about G-rated summaries and titles. 2. Forgive that this piece lacks the metaphoric flourish of a lot of the great pieces in this archive. I'm a story teller at heart and don't have a drop of poet in me. 3. I usually double beta everything I post before I post it, but I really wanted to get this is up before tomorrow's episode. Any errors are my own.

**Disclaimer: **American Horror Story belongs not to me

**Warnings** (entire work)**: **adult situations, non-graphic sexual situations, language

* * *

><p><strong>Cocksucker<br>**_The Split_

Tate sat at the top of the stairs with his eyes squeezed shut, plucking at threads that had come loose from the sleeve of his sweater. The hem was ratty, the lining completely separated from the striped outer layer, and there was a hole through which Tate could stick his thumb.

Something shattered in the kitchen. Tate curled his legs to his chest and pressed his face into his knees. He covered his ears with his sleeve wrapped hands. His mother shrieked wordlessly. Tate whined.

They'd been shouting at each other for nearly an hour now, something they'd been doing a lot lately. Tears leaked out the corners of Tate's eyes. The kitchen table raked across the ceramic tiles with a harsh screech. Tate pressed his palms tighter to his head, hoping maybe he could crush his skull or at least pop his ear drums.

He worried his bottom lip with his teeth, chewed his tongue, shook his head back and forth until the denim of his jeans chafed his nose. "Shut up," he murmured into his thighs, so quiet he couldn't hear the words himself. "Shut up, shut up, shut up," he said, each time increasing in volume until his voice was an audible whisper. He kept repeating it, a little louder and a little louder until he was speaking normally, not that it was loud enough to be heard by the couple fighting in the kitchen.

Tate picked his head up. His eyes and nose were swollen red; his cheeks were chapped with tears. He wiped his nose with his sleeve and glared at the wall opposite him. "Shut up," he said, but he was disappointed with ragged sound of his voice. The words came out choked. He cleared his throat, and said it again, "Shut up." This time the words were clear and calm, but still not spoken loud enough to carry into the kitchen.

Tate steeled himself to say it even louder, shout it, scream it even. He straightened himself and gripped his knees to keep his hands from shaking. He visualized himself doing it. First he saw the way his face would contort, the way his nose would tense and creases would form at the corners of his eyes and on his forehead. Then he saw his parents, freezing in mid-sentence, his mother with a vase to smash poised in her hand. He sucked in a deep breath, filling his lungs with angry steam.

His lips parted, but before he could make a sound, the screaming in the kitchen stopped. He heard his father stomping through the entry hall, and Tate moved to stand up and bolt for his bedroom, but the steps were moving away from him. The front door flung open so hard it hit the wall and then slammed shut, leaving the entire house silent.

Tate's cry was still lodged in his throat, choking him. His whole frame began tremble.

"Tate?" his mother called. Her voice wavered. She sniffled before saying again, "Tate?"

Her heels clipped more softly on the wood paneling of the hall than his father's shoes.

Tate couldn't move, unable to decide if he should go to her or lock himself in his room, so he was stuck sitting on that top step half-way between the two.

The house was so quiet, Tate actually heard the sweep of his mother's fingers along the polished wood of the stair rail just before she took the first step. "Tate, my dear, where are you?" she said gently.

Tate raked his fingers through his hair and breathed harshly through clenched teeth, and that's how Constance found him, crying with his hands tangled on top of his head.

"Oh, Tate, my baby, my poor, poor baby." Constance adjusted her skirt so she could squat beside him on the stairs. She took his wrists and plied his fingers from his curls, carefully so as not to tug his scalp. "Shh." She wrapped her arms around his head and cradled him against her bosom. "It's okay. We'll be okay without him. We're okay."

Tate cried harder. It was involuntary, but his hands came up to grasp at the padded shoulders of his mother's dress.

"Shh." Constance stroked his hair. "Shh." She held him until his sobs subsided, and when his cries had quieted to sniffles, she leaned away from him and picked up his head with fingertips under his chin. "There now," she stroked his cheek, "that's better." She smiled, corners of her eyes crinkling, and tipped her head to the side, just staring at him for a moment.

"You look so much like your father," she left her hand holding his face. "Such a handsome boy." She trailed her fingers from Tate's cheekbone to the v-neck collar of his sweater.

Tate leaned away from her, and swiping his sleeve across his face, said, "I wanna go to bed, now."

"Of course you do, sweetheart."

Tate clutched the stair rail, using it both to pull himself to his feet and away from his mother. His knees quaked. "Goodnight."

"Sweet dreams."

HHH

She came into his bedroom long after he turned the lights out, but Tate hadn't yet fallen asleep. She smelled of stale cigarette smoke and bourbon and she hadn't yet changed into her nightgown despite the late hour.

Tate slept on his side, facing away from the door. He closed his eyes that much tighter when his mother's hand stroked his hair off his forehead.

"Tate," she whispered, "are you asleep?" There was a slight slur to her words.

Tate held his breath.

She waited a moment for him to answer, and when he didn't, she sighed. Tate felt the blanket at his back lift and the mattress shift under her weight when she climbed into the bed behind him. She pressed close to his back, draping her arm around his waist and burying her face between his shoulder blades. Her palm rubbed circles on his stomach.

Tate didn't sleep that night. He kept his breathing shallow so as not to jostle the hand on his abdomen and stared out his window, willing the light behind the curtain to brighten. By the time the sun crept between the blinds, Tate's left arm was numb. His neck was stiff, and he had a sore spot where his right knee had rested atop the side of his left thigh. His eyes felt dry and his head ached.

Even so, he didn't move when his mother's hand stroked across his stomach and rubbed his hip. He closed his eyes just before she leaned over him to kiss his cheek, and he counted to sixty after he heard the door close before throwing off the blankets.

His knees protested when he tossed his legs over the side of the bed, so before he stood, Tate yanked his sleep shirt over his head. The cotton smelled strongly of smoke and his mother's perfume when it dragged over his face. On the shirt's back were smudges of makeup, two blue-black smudges of eye liner and a smear of nude lipstick. Tate balled up the tee and threw it in the trash can by his desk instead of the laundry hamper. He wriggled out of his sweats without standing and then folded them on his pillow.

He wanted to change his sheets because they doubtlessly smelt the same as his shirt, but he needed to shower for school. The sheets would have to wait. He grabbed his bathrobe off the hook on the back of his bedroom door and pulled the thick terrycloth tight around him over his boxers. He nuzzled the fluffy collar, relishing the comforting softness for a moment before leaving the safety of his bedroom and walking to the bathroom.

He was scrubbing his hair when the bathroom door opened.

"Tate?" Constance sounded like she'd had her coffee. She'd self-medicated for her hangover with caffeine. "Is my razor in there? I can't seem to find it."

Tate wiped the shampoo bubbles out of his eyes and scanned the shelf hanging from the shower head. "No, Mom, I don't see it."

"Are you sure? Here, let me look."

Before Tate could protest, Constance had flung back the shower curtain, poking her head with its pink curlers wrapped in her hair, into the shower.

"Mom!" Tate's hands flew down to hide his crotch.

"Oh, hush, it's not like its anything I haven't seen before," Constance chided, looking him over from head to knees before searching the shower shelf. "Huh… you're right… I wonder where it could have gone." She started to back out of the shower, but before she closed the curtain, she paused and said, "My, what a handsome man you have grown into."

Tate stood under the shower spray with his eyes closed until the water ran cold. He couldn't name the feeling sticking to his skin, and he couldn't wash it away either.

HHH

When Tate got home from school, there was a plate of cupcakes on the table. He could see multi-colored spots in the cake through the paper wrappers, and there were bright colored candies mixed in with the frosting. They were his favorite kind, but his mother hadn't made them for him since his sixth birthday.

As if on cue, Constance sashayed in from the living room. She smiled when she saw Tate admiring the cupcakes. "Go ahead," she said, "have one, but just one." She looked down her nose at Tate with a twinkle in her eye. "Wouldn't want you to ruin your supper. I got the most delicious sounding recipe for corn dogs from scratch from one of the ladies at book club this morning."

Tate blinked. Never before had his mother even suggested cooking something so fattening, something that might broaden her figure, pristine as it was for her age. "Uhm, thanks," he said.

Constance beamed. "Did you have a good day at school?"

Tate shrugged. "It was alright."

"What classes did you have?"

"Mom, I need to do homework…"

Constance pouted. "Well, at least sit at the kitchen table and do it. Keep your poor mother company while she cooks dinner."

Without saying anything, Tate pulled out a chair and flung his backpack onto the table. He picked a cupcake and peeled off half the wrapper so he could take a bite before unzipping his bag and pulling out his math textbook and notebook.

"Just one, now," Constance reminded.

Tate nodded without looking up from his book.

HHH

Tate expected his mother to make herself a salad for supper, but she sat across from him at the kitchen table – another thing that had never happened before; Constance always insisted they eat in the formal dining room – and put two greasy corndogs on her plate and poured herself a puddle equal parts ketchup and mayonnaise in which to dip them.

She ate the corndogs just like Tate did, picking them by their wooden stick and biting the ends. She didn't use a fork and knife when she'd eaten down far enough that the stick got in the way, just scooted the breading and hotdog further up with her fingers. The only difference between Constance and Tate at the dinner table that night was that Constance wiped her hands delicately on a cloth napkin while Tate wiped his on his pants' leg.

"How does it taste?" Constance asked.

Tate barely swallowed before saying, "Delicious."

"Good. I may have to get more recipes from her… I mean, I always did think she was kind of a pig of a woman, but what is it they say? Something about only fat people knowing good food?" Constance sighed.

Tate shrugged and took another bite of corndog. He ate another three, and it was the most food he'd ever eaten during a meal at home.

Constance didn't even finish her second, but she waited for Tate to finish eating, watching him with her chin resting in her palm.

"My goodness," she exclaimed after Tate had finished his last corndog. She leaned down to look under the table before standing. "What do you have down there? A hollow leg?" She picked up the dishes from the table and set them in a pile in the sink.

Tate began collecting his books into his bag so he could take them upstairs to finish his homework, but instead of beginning to wash the dishes, Constance said, "Let's watch some television before you go to bed."

"I still have homework to finish."

"Oh, come now. You can take a thirty minute break to watch TV."

Tate sighed. "Just thirty minutes, I guess."

Constance smiled. "Good."

Tate followed her into the living room, and sat on the couch while she turned on the television. Tate was surprised she knew how to work it, and he was even more surprised when she turned on the cable box and found the channel on which Jeopardy was playing instead of putting in a movie. She sat down on the couch close to Tate, even though there were two cushions that he wasn't occupying, and then she tucked herself under his arm, snuggling against his side. Tate started to flinch away, but Constance wrapped an arm around his back such that her fingers held his hip. She brought her other hand up to rest on Tate's chest.

"My, what a strong boy you've grown into," she said, fingertips idly drawing patterns through his sweater.

Tate swallowed hard and fixed his eyes on the TV screen. Usually he knew more than half the answers, but every time his mother asked if he knew one, he found himself bumbling something incoherent long after the contestant had responded.

When the first line of credits inched up from the bottom of the screen, Tate launched himself off the couch. Constance nearly tipped over.

"But there's another episode coming on," she said.

"I've got a major exam tomorrow I need to study for." Tate didn't wait for his mother to answer. He grabbed his backpack off the kitchen floor and jogged upstairs.

HHH

Tate decided to sit awake at his desk all night. He dreaded that if he climbed under the sheets and closed his eyes his mother would crawl into bed behind him, press herself against his back and keep him from sleeping, and if Tate was going to pull another all-nighter, it was going to be doing something he actually liked. He flipped to the next glossy page of his new book and traced the edges of a soaring swallow's wings with the tip of one finger.

Sometime a little after midnight, his mother came in without knocking. She was wearing her nightgown, and she looked surprised to see Tate not in bed.

"I saw the light under the door and thought you'd fallen asleep with it on," she said in the way of an explanation. "Why haven't you gone to bed yet?"

"Told you," Tate said, "Major exam to study for." He tapped the open book on his desk knowing his mother couldn't see its pages from the doorway.

"Oh." Constance paused. "Well, get to sleep soon. Sometimes a good night's rest is the best kind of studying."

"Thanks, Mom." Tate waved her back out the door.

HHH

Tate woke the next morning face down on his book with a crick in his neck. There was a wet smudge blurring the paragraph about the mating rituals of the American goldfinch where he had drooled. Tate rubbed the sleep from his eyes and looked at his alarm clock. He still had time to shower before catching the bus, and he toed off just his shoes before heading for the bathroom.

He should have locked the door. He thought about it right after he stepped under the shower spray, but he didn't want to leave the warmth of the steam to hop across cold tiles.

Constance came in before he'd even picked up the soap. She didn't give him any verbal warning this time before opening the shower curtain, and when Tate blinked the water from his eyes he saw that she was naked.

"There's something wrong with my shower," she said. "There's no water pressure, and I have a brunch date with Ms. Liddie." She stepped over the edge of the tub and pulled the curtain closed behind her.

Tate averted his eyes from her skin, sagging only slightly with age, faint stretch marks on her stomach the only evidence of her multiple pregnancies. He stuck one arm out of the shower and fumbled blindly for his towel hanging from the rack. "Gimme just a sec, I'll get out."

"Oh nonsense, you've got to get ready for school."

"Mom – " His voice cracked, cutting him off, when he felt her hands on him, massaging soap onto his chest and shoulders.

"It's been so very long since I bathed you myself, Tate. Indulge your mother just this," she said, voice longing and saccharine.

Tate cried. Cried when she scrubbed his back, cried when she made him duck his head so she could wash his hair, cried when she got down on her knees between his legs, and he sobbed when he came in her mouth, but she didn't recognize her child's cry of distress and the shower water hid his tears.

HHH

Tate stood at the bathroom sink and stared at his reflection in the mirror. His cheeks were sunken and there were dark purple bags under his eyes. He thought it would end when his father came back, thought the kisses and touches would stop as soon as Constance had someone else to lavish her attention on. The hope got him by for two sleepless weeks of showering at strange hours of the morning and making up excuses to stay late at school and eating dinner out.

And then Tate realized his father was never coming back. Constance had removed every trace of him from the house that morning, hauling bags of his clothes to the curb and plucking his books from the shelves in the library and tossing them into the fireplace. Even pieces of jewelry he'd given her were collected in flat boxes and stacked on the table by the door to be taken someplace to sell. Artwork he had chosen for the study Constance carried next door and gave to the neighbors as gifts. She was meticulous, his mother was, carefully erasing his father from the house one room at a time.

She forgot only one thing, an old straight shaving razor of his father's which Tate found dust covered in a back corner of the cabinet under the bathroom sink. He rinsed it lovingly with warm water before dragging the blade from wrist bone to the other.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Constance's relationships with her children are just unorthodox enough that I really wouldn't put sexual abuse past her.


	2. The Girl

**Cocksucker**_  
>The Girl<em>

She found Tate one afternoon in the library, scaring him out of his skin when she came up behind him and said, "So you're the reason none of the books I want to check out are ever available." He'd been dozing in one of the lumpy library chairs, catching a quick nap before returning to his house.

"Huh? What?" Tate whipped his head from one side to the other.

She laughed softly and walked around the armrest to stand in front of him. "Sorry," she said, "didn't realize you were asleep."

Tate raked a hand through his hair, shoving his bangs out of his face. "Wasn't asleep," he lied, straightening up. "What about books?"

She flipped open the back cover of the book in her hands and slid out the wrinkled check-out card. "Are you Tate L… Lng…" She struggled to interpret the librarian's crooked scrawl, finally gave up, and held the card out so Tate could see it. "Are you him?"

"Oh… yeah."

"It looks like you've checked out this book every year," she said, replacing the card it the back of the book jacket. "I've been waiting for it since school started."

"I really like it."

"It does look pretty great. I mean, I've only flipped through the first couple pages, but the photos are really awesome, especially for how old it is."

"Yeah."

"So you must really like birds, huh? Your name's in the back of all six books the library has. More than once." She sat across from him on a low table, ignoring a glare shot her way by a student library volunteer who was shelving books.

"Yeah, I do."

She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. "Whatcha readin' now?" She could see it was another book about birds from the page Tate had it open to on his lap, but she lifted it just enough that she could peek at the cover.

"It's new. I requested it last year, and they finally got it," Tate said.

"Ah," she said. "Well, don't keep it too long, 'kay? I'd like to check it out, too."

"Uhm, okay."

She smiled at him. "I'm catching a ride with a friend." She stood. "But it was nice to finally meet you, Tate."

Tate stared after her, only realizing long after she'd passed through the library door that while she knew his name, he'd never gotten hers.

HHH

Tate read the book in one sleepless night, sitting at his desk with headphones on to block out the sound of his mother pounding on the door, begging him to let her in, and while he admired the birds gliding carelessly from one page to the next, he formulated a plan to break free from his mother.

The first step was to find the girl. Tate didn't know her name and didn't have any friends he could ask if they knew her, so he searched the halls for her in the morning, ducking into the middle of gaggles of girls and poking his head into homeroom classrooms until he found her at her locker. A bluebird Christmas ornament hung from a magnetized hook on the inside of her locker door, and she had feathered clip holding her hair out of her face. It took Tate a moment to work up the courage to say:

"Uhm, hey." The first time he said it, it wasn't loud enough to carry over the noise of the hallway, and the second time, he said it so loud he made her jump and spin around. "Shit, sorry, I didn't mean to scare you." Tate stared at the scuffed toes of his converse.

She just laughed. "No worries. What's up?"

"I finished the book." He pulled it out of his backpack and held it out to her.

"That's awesome, but don't I have to check it from the library anyway?"

"Right…"

"Thanks for letting me know, though. I'll be sure to pick it up this afternoon." She shut her locker and started to turn like she was going to leave.

"Hey, wait."

She stopped.

"What's your name?"

"Melodie."

Tate liked the way the name sounded in his head, but he resisted the urge to try it on his tongue while she was standing there. "I've got a ton more bird books at my house, if you wanna come by some time and check 'em out."

Melodie smiled. "I'd like that a lot."

"Are you doing anything after school?" Tate asked.

"My parents are expecting me to come straight home today. Gotta babysit the siblings. But tomorrow I probably can."

"Okay." Tate nodded. "Tomorrow then."

"See ya, Tate."

HHH

"Oh my God," was the first thing Melodie said when Tate lead her through the front gate and up the path to the front door. "It's huge."

Tate cocked his head to one side and tried to admire the house as Melodie did. It had always just been his house. He had no other homes with which to compare it, and so had never considered it larger than normal.

"I bet you had a helluva time playing hide-n-seek when you were a kid."

Tate thought of hiding in closets and under the basement stairs while his parents chased each other through the house, screaming and throwing things. He supposed the house's impressive square footage did allow him ample spaces to hide, even if no one had ever sought him out, so he hummed noncommittally so Melodie would think he agreed.

They paused at the door so Tate could fish his key out of his pocket, and Melodie came up close behind him so she could stretch out a hand and caress the wood. "It's pretty," she said, "so old. It's got a lot of character."

"More than you know," Tate said, twisting the door knob and pushing the door open, leaving Melodie's hand hovering above his shoulder, fingers splayed.

Constance was sitting at the kitchen table flipping through a cooking magazine when Tate passed through to grab a package of cookies to take upstairs. "Hi, Mom," he said, picking up the cookies, and then turning to lean his back on the edge of the kitchen counter.

"Tate!" She smiled so wide that the corners of her eyes crinkled, so excited was she that Tate had initiated a conversation. "I thought you were staying late for – " Her question cut off and her expression fell when she saw Melodie. "Who is this?"

"Hi, Mrs. Langdon." Melodie offered her hand. "I'm Melodie."

Constance fiddled with her earing instead of shaking Melodie's hand. "Hello," was all she said to Melodie before turning her shoulder toward her and facing Tate. "Tate, honey, I didn't know you were bringing home a guest. I only made enough dinner for two."

"Oh, that's okay," Melodie said, "I've gotta be home by six."

Constance clasped her hands atop her magazine and forced a smile. "Well, then I guess there's no problem."

"Cool." Tate straightened up and started to leave the kitchen, heading for the stairs. Melodie followed.

"Tate, where are you going?" Constance asked.

"To my room."

"Are you sure you don't want to stay in the living room?"

"I'm not carrying all my books downstairs, Mom."

"Oh… well, leave your bedroom door open, then."

"Yeah, Mom." Tate rolled his eyes at Melodie as they climbed the stairs.

"Your Mom seems nice enough," Melodie said.

Tate snorted, "Sure." When they got to the top of the stairs, he said, "My room's this way."

Melodie lagged behind him a few a steps, pausing to admire molded details in the corners of the ceiling and gilded glass light fixtures; even the antique rug with its faded paisley print and tattered knots of fringe that stretched the entire length of the hall grabbed her attention. "I really like your house," she said.

"Glad someone does," Tate said, opening his bedroom door. He had his back to her, so he didn't see Melodie frown and open her mouth to ask him what he meant by that, nor did he see her mouth abruptly shut when she came into the room behind him.

"I gotta say…" Melodie scanned each wall from top to bottom. "I really like what you've done with the place."

"I think you just like everything." Tate sat on the edge of his bed.

One corner of Melodie's mouth turned up in half a smile, and she didn't look away from Tate's ink on cloth tapestry of a bird perched amidst stalks of bamboo when she said, "Maybe I do." She reverently traced the Chinese characters that ran down the side of the artwork. "What's it say?"

"Beats me."

Melodie laughed and continued her circuit around his room, pausing at each poster and painting until she got to his dresser. "Did you make this?" She reached out her hand like she was going to touch the wire crow sculpture, but checked the gesture because she was unsure how delicate the black coils might be.

"Nah. Found it at a thrift store."

"I'm jealous. I never find cool stuff at thrift stores. Just moldy, smelly sweaters."

"Maybe you're not looking hard enough."

Melodie eyed him side long. "Maybe." She made her way to his book shelf and squatted in front of it. "You should come to my house sometime. I'm working on a mural, my whole bedroom wall – "

"Your parents let you paint your walls?"

"Yeah."

"My mom didn't even want me to hang this stuff up."

"Anyway, it's a rainforest canopy scene, with all these bright colored tropical birds and some lizards and other cool animals that live in the rainforest."

"What about monkeys?"

"I hate monkeys. They're creepy."

"I guess you don't like everything."

Melodie laughed.

"Your laugh sounds like your name," Tate said.

Melodie said, "Thanks," even though she scrunched her face up and looked kind of confused by Tate's observation, and then she went back to skimming the titles on his bookshelf. "Stephen King, H.P. Lovecraft, William Golding, and bird books. All this bookshelf is missing is a little Twain."

Tate just wrinkled his nose.

Melodie sighed. That soft exhalation kind of sounded like her name, too, but this time Tate didn't say as much. "To each his own, I s'pose," she told him, and then, "Hey, can I borrow this?" She pulled out his copy of _The Spire_ and held it up so Tate could see it. "I've been looking for it everywhere, but all I can ever find by him is _Lord of the Flies_."

"Yeah, sure."

She tucked the book into front pocket of her backpack, and then pulled another, this one large and green and hardbound from the shelf. She carried over to the bed and flopped down next to Tate on her stomach. "Hummingbirds are my favorite. Let's look through this one." So Tate toed off his shoes and shuffled around on top of the comforter until he was lying next to Melodie with his elbow on the mattress and his chin in his palm, holding his head out of the way so Melodie could turn the broad pages.

"Tate?" someone was whispering. A hand stroked his hair. "Tate, wake up."

Tate blinked slowly into semi-awareness. The last thing he remembered was Melodie talking as fast as a hummingbird's wings about green thorntails' nests. The backs of knuckles were brushing his temple. "Tate?" the female voice said again.

Tate made a half-choked whine of a distressed sound, pressed his palms hard into the blankets, and pushed himself away from the hand on his head with so much force that he toppled over the edge of the bed onto the floor.

"Tate!" Melodie jumped off the bed and rushed around to kneel beside him. "Are you okay?" She reached for him, but Tate flinched away. She settled a hand on his calf instead, thumb rubbing tight circles into the taught muscle. "If I'd've known waking you would scare you so bad, I'd've left without saying goodbye," she said it like a joke, but Tate could hear concern shading the words.

Tate's chest heaved. He shut his eyes tight then opened them again, just to reassure himself that it was Melodie on the floor in front of him and not his mother.

"Tate?" Melodie frowned. "Are you okay?"

Tate gulped, then nodded, then managed to say, "Yeah."

"Okay." Melodie seemed reluctant to take her hand of his leg, but she did, placing it on the edge of the bed and hauling herself to her feet. "I gotta go. I'm gonna miss the bus back to my neighborhood if I don't like… run to the stop now."

"Bye."

"Bye, Tate."

"You wanna come over again tomorrow? I think I've got more hummingbird books in a box in the attic. They're not really my favorite, but I'm sure you could tell me a lot about them."

Melodie smiled. "Okay, I'll see you tomorrow."

HHH

That night, Constance picked the lock on Tate's door so she could climb into bed with him.

HHH

There were more than a dozen hummingbird books displayed on Tate's bed the next time Melodie came to visit. "Wow." She picked up the closest one and flipped through the pages, surprised when a public library check-out card fell out. Tate's name was on the last line. Melodie set that book down and picked up another, flipping open the back cover, and sure enough, there was another check-out card with Tate's name on it. Just to be sure before she said anything, Melodie opened a third book with the same results. "Tate?" she sing-songed.

"Hmm?" Tate turned from where he was adjusting his stereo and saw Melodie holding up the check-out card. He felt the color drain from his face in a cool wave.

"These aren't your books, are they? You checked them all out from the library down the street." She faked a pout.

"Uhm, yeah. Sorry…"

"Aww!" Melodie chirped. "Don't be sorry, c'mere."

Confused, Tate walked to stand in front of her.

"Closer."

Tate took another step, and was almost knocked off his feet when Melodie tossed her arms around his neck and got up on her toes to kiss him on the mouth. Tate did his best to return the kiss, and even though he thought he was sloppy and awkward, he felt Melodie smile against his lips just before she pulled away. "I think you're cute, carrying every book the library has about hummingbirds all the way back to your house. You didn't have to, though." She lifted onto her toes again, and Tate thought she was going to kiss him, but she just playful bumped his nose with her own. "I would have been just as happy to read about raptors." She let her hand fall from his shoulder, fingers lazily stroking down his arm until they twined with Tate's own, "but… since we've got all these hummingbird books…" She gave his hand a tug toward the bed.

Tate helped her clear a space for them to lay as they had the afternoon before with a book open between them, but this time Tate didn't fall asleep. He didn't always pay attention to everything Melodie said; sometimes he found himself entranced by the way she was always tucking her hair behind her ears or the way she bit her lip when she couldn't think of a word or how she liked to trace the outlines of the birds in the pictures just like he did.

"…I like to imagine that I'm flying," Melodie said. "Do you ever do that?"

"All the fucking time."

Melodie sighed and leaned her head on his shoulder.

HHH

The next afternoon, Melodie helped Tate carry the hummingbird books back to the library. She carried only five books, the thinnest hardbound ones, and Tate carried the rest. He told her he wanted to hurry and drop the books off so that they would have time to watch all of a really cool seabird documentary he'd found buried in a cabinet in one of the biology classrooms. The truth was that he wanted to get back to his house and turn off his bedroom lights so that while Melodie watched the movie, he could catch some much needed rest while she played his unwitting guard. His arms ached under the weight of the books, and his head swam in the just-barely-too-warm-to-have-a-sweater-on fall weather.

He shoved the books through the slot by the library door two at a time until two he tried didn't fit. They jammed against the metal frame of the slot and made an angry crunching-clanging sound. He didn't immediately remove the top book so the bottom one could slide in unhindered, but instead tried to force them both through again.

Melodie touched the back of his wrist with one hand and pried his fingers off the books with other. Then she adjusted them so they would fall easily into the drop box. "You okay?" she asked, taking the next book off his stack and sliding it through the slot.

"Yeah. Just tired. Sorry."

Melodie continued returning the books, one at a time.

"You want me to go home after this?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

Tate nodded.

"We don't have to watch the movie, you know. We can save it for another afternoon. We can just lay in your bed and talk, if you want."

Tate sighed heavily, and his shoulders slumped. "Yeah, yeah, that sounds good."

Melodie offered him a small smile and pressed a hand between his shoulder blades. "Okay."

Melodie had never taken her shoes off when entering his room before; she always just let them dangle over the foot of the bed while they read, but today she toed them off and tucked them under Tate's desk by the door before pulling back his bedcovers and crawling under. She waited for Tate to remove his own shoes before patting the mattress beside her.

Tate sat on the edge of the bed with his feet on the floor, uncertain until he felt her hands pull his shoulders from behind. He rolled slowly into her arms, wrapping his own around her torso and pulling her so close that he could tuck his head under her chin. She settled her arms around his shoulders, the fingers of one hand rubbing the spot behind his ear, the fingers of the other petting his hair. "You wanna tell me why you're not sleeping at night?" she asked.

"No."

Melodie sighed. "I didn't think so." So she just hugged him tight, rested her cheek atop his head, and dozed with him.

HHH

Constance had been sitting in the living room when they'd returned from the library. They'd come through the door holding hands, and Tate hadn't so much as acknowledged Constance, sitting on the couch in front of the TV in plain view from the entry hall. She resolved to make Tate sorry after Melodie left, but with every turned page of her romance novel, she thought of the two of them giggling and flirting with each other in Tate's bedroom and it outraged her. If she couldn't have Tate smiling and in love, than this high school brat certainly couldn't. Constance turned a page so hard that it ripped free from the binding.

She set the book on the coffee table, took a deep breath, and smoothed her curls before standing and going to the foot of the stairs.

"Tate," she called. "Tate, Melodie's mother called. She needs to get home now."

Constance waited for an answer, and when she didn't get one, she started up the stairs.

Tate's door wasn't open all the way, but it was ajar, and light from his bedroom spilled into the otherwise dark hallway. There was no sound coming from the room, not the murmur of Tate's television or the racket of Tate's music, not even whispers of conversation, and Constance tiptoed to the door, nudging it open with the back of her hand.

There they were: bodies pressed against each other and limbs entwined under the sheets and for a moment Constance was speechless, unable to do anything but furiously blink back tears, and then she grabbed the door by its edge and flung it open so that it smacked against the wall, knob puncturing the plaster. "You harlot!" she shrieked. "You filthy whore!"

Tate and Melodie started awake and frantically worked to untangle themselves both from each other and the blankets. "Mrs. Langdon," Melodie started, "It's not what… we were just – "

"Shut up!" Constance roared, shifting her weight to the balls of her feet, making herself taller. "Shut the fuck up and get the hell out of my house!"

Melodie clamored across the room to the desk, and when she bent down to get her shoes out from under it, she barely ducked Constance's swing at her head.

"Mom!"

"You!" Constance whirled on Tate. "I can't even bear to look at _you_! Just get this dirty little slut out of my house and then I'll decide what to do with _you_!" Then Constance really did have to turn and stomp away because she was starting again to cry.

Melodie was crying, too, single, silent tears that squeezed one at a time from the corners of her eyes and dribbled down her cheeks despite her best efforts to blink them back. She chewed her bottom lip, and her hands trembled as she tried to pull on her shoes without untying the laces. Tate knelt on the floor behind her, draping his arms over her shoulders and stilling her shaking hands with his own. "Please don't cry." He nuzzled her cheek.

"No… I think now's a pretty good time for crying." She sniffled and tugged the fingers of one hand free from Tate's so she could wipe her face. She leaned back into his chest, and he hugged her.

"Don't leave," Tate said.

Melodie managed a choked, humorless laugh. "I don't think that's an option, Tate."

"I'll talk to her, I'll make her understand, it'll be okay."

"And what am I supposed to do until then? Hide up here?"

"The basement door is never locked. Wait for me there. After I've talked to her, I'll come get you."

"This is crazy, Tate. Your mother wants to me leave."

"No," Tate said, "She's gotta learn to accept this."

Melodie wasn't entirely sure what Tate meant by that, but she let him sneak her out the back door and point her toward the basement door anyway.

HHH

Constance lounged on the living room couch. Her makeup was all out of place, eyeliner and shadow smeared like a moody abstract watercolor painting on her cheeks, lipstick smudged around her mouth and gumming the filter of her trembling cigarette. "Is she gone?" she said quietly when she heard Tate's approach. She didn't turn to look at him.

"Yeah. But she's coming back."

Constance snorted. "Don't be silly, Tate."

"She is. Because you can't keep me all alone in this house forever. Not like you did Dad."

"Don't pretend to know anything about your father and I, Tate." Constance took a long drag from her cigarette.

"I'm going to leave you, one day, too," Tate said. He clenched his hands into fists until his nails bit into his palms, and then he flexed his fingers.

"Did that little slut put that idea in your head?"

"Don't call her that!" Tate had meant to say it calmly, but he snapped instead.

"Oh, please. You hardly know her."

"She cares about me."

The line of Constance's shoulders went rigid. "What are you saying, Tate?" When Tate didn't immediately answer, she slung her legs around so her feet rested on the floor and turned her torso toward him. "Are you saying she cares about you more than I do? Are you saying that _you_ care about _that little whore_ more than you do your own mother?" Constance got to her feet. She swayed in her heels, and for the first time, Tate noticed the tumbler of amber liquid on the coffee table. "Or do you love her?" Constance sneered. She sauntered up to Tate and breathed her cigarette smoke in his face. Tears were starting to bead in the corners of her eyes, threatening to spill from their ducts. She was so close to Tate he could see the murky droplets quivering. "You don't love her more than your own mother, do you?"

Tate locked his eyes with Constance's. "Yes." He wasn't even sure it was true, but he made the decision to say it in less time than it took to breathe the hard syllable.

Constance grabbed the nearest object – her hand blown ashtray sitting on the side table – and hurled it at Tate. He ducked, but his plan to escape his mother shattered like the glass against the wall.

HHH

Tate's basement was dank and dark and cold and all those other adjectives that described basements in horror novels. Melodie sat, huddled as far up on the stairs as she dared, high enough that some of the light slithering under the door touched her knees, but low enough that if Constance flung that door open she could bolt for a shadowed corner. She could hear Constance screaming. She couldn't hear Tate at all, and she found herself wishing she hadn't laughed when her dad had offered to buy her cell phone last month. She needed one; Tate needed her to have one, to call 9-1-1, to rescue him from the shattering and thundering and shouting upstairs. One particular smash startled Melodie so bad that she jumped and her foot slipped down a step, rubber sole of her shoe smacking the wood hard enough that she thought she'd be caught. But the fighting above her continued uninterrupted, and Melodie decided if she couldn't call for help, the least she could do was be here when it was over. She'd make up a crazy excuse for her parents, or maybe even tell them the truth.

So she leaned her back against the wall, closed her eyes, and waited for silence. When it came, she expected Tate to fling open the door at the top of the steps and sprint down them, nearly tripping over Melodie in the process, and they'd stumble and catch each other, and she'd just _be there_. But long moments passed and nothing happened. Melodie was just standing, working up the courage to open the door herself and peer out, when a piece of paper fluttered under the crack. It skittered in the dust and dropped between the open slats of the steps, floating to the floor beneath her.

Melodie tiptoed down the stairs to retrieve it.

The note read: _leave don't come back she'll kill you_

It landed propped on a stuffed toy bald eagle, dust covered and netted down with cobwebs. Melodie picked up the toy and brushed its fur clean, wiped the grime from its glass eyes with the sleeve of her sweater. "Oh, Tate," she whimpered, hugging the bird to her chest.


	3. The Shooting

**Cocksucker**_  
>The Shooting<br>_  
>Tate wasn't at school, and that was why Melodie found herself standing in the thicket of plants that framed his basement door. Her heart was beating somewhere in her stomach, making its contents slosh and the world sway like seasickness. She didn't know what she was doing; she'd been standing for ten minutes with her hand on the tarnished bronze knob.<p>

She should have told a school counselor, the rational part of her thought, the part of her that knew it was illegal to let herself into someone's basement, but the teenage part of her, the part of her whose frontal lobes weren't fully formed or whatever such bullshit, couldn't fathom the idea that Tate was in any real danger. From her cushy vantage point in a home with two supportive parents who let her paint her walls and paid her ten bucks an hour for babysitting her little brother, the idea of an unapologetically abusive mother seemed impossible. She must have missed something.

That's what she was doing, she decided. She was filling in the blanks, figuring out what had really happened yesterday afternoon, all the nitty-gritty details that she had missed because she was huddled in the basement, and then making sure Tate was okay. Resolved that she was on an investigatory mission, Melodie twisted the door knob and let herself inside.

She crossed the basement floor one step at a time, each footfall grounding her, steadying her. She gripped the stair rail tight for balance, splinters of unfinished wood pricking her hands, but as she approached the door at the top, her hold loosened. She tamped down the feeling of nausea that threatened to sweep her head first back down the stairs before opening the basement door.

The main floor wasn't silent like the basement. Something was creaking rhythmically in the living room, and Melodie followed the sound despite her original plan to head straight for Tate's bedroom.

When she rounded the corner of the entry hall, at first, Melodie didn't know what she was looking at: Constance's blonde curls attached to a bare neck attached to bare shoulders, the whole bare body shifting up and down and squirming from side to side. Her blouse was unbuttoned, but still tucked into her skirt, hiked up around her thighs as it was, and her shirt-sleeves were pooling around her elbows.

Stiff legs clad in jeans with holes in the knees jutted out from under Constance's buttocks. Hands, clenched into fists, rested on the cushions beside Constance's knees, and when Constance ducked her head to kiss the neck of the person underneath her, Melodie saw to whom those petrified limbs belonged.

Tate's head bowed forward. His eyes were closed, the lids swollen and red. His mother's lipstick was smeared on his mouth, his cheeks, his chin. His bare chest hiccupped with sobs he fought to contain.

It was a gut reaction. Melodie grabbed the nearest framed picture off the wall and threw it overhand at Constance's back. "Get off of him!"

Constance shrieked when the corner of the frame connected with the skin between her shoulder blades. Melodie froze and her eyes bugged open when she saw blood well up from the spot and trickle down Constance's back, and she hadn't yet reacquired the presence of mind to move when Constance hurled the lamp at her, jerking the appliance free from the wall with a hiss and pop. It hit Melodie in the stomach, and, cushioned by her clothes, it rolled down her body and cracked into two pieces on the floor.

"Get out!" Constance screamed. "Get out of my house!" She scrambled off Tate, pulling her shirt around her with one hand and grabbing for the fireplace poker with the other.

Melodie tried to throw the bottom of the lamp back, but it broke against the edge of the coffee table, missing Constance entirely.

"You little bitch!" She stalked toward Melodie, who backed up a step for each step Constance took forward.

Constance lifted the poker above her head, poised to crack Melodie's skull with it, but Tate grabbed it. He yanked the rod out of her hand with enough force to knock Constance off her feet, and he let her fall onto the floor when she stumbled into his chest. He tossed the impromptu weapon aside.

"Get out," he told Melodie. His eyes were hooded, cheeks sunken, expression dark.

"Tate…"

"Get out!"

Melodie took a step toward the front door. "Come with me," she said.

"No!" Constance wailed. She wrapped her arms around Tate's knees and pressed her face into the side of his thigh.

Melodie bit her lip. "Tate, please…"

Tate shut his eyes, but the tears still spilled out from under his lashes, pouring down his cheeks and washing clean stripes through the lipstick stains. He shook his head slowly, and didn't look at Melodie when he said, "Just. Leave."

"Okay." She just managed to shut the door behind her before she started to cry.

HHH

Melodie didn't expect Tate to come to school, but she went to where his locker was anyway, and was surprised to find him taking books from his bag and sliding them onto the shelves. She pressed her palm against his lower back. "Tate?"

In profile, she saw him suck his bottom lip into his mouth and bite down on it. "Go away," he said without looking at her.

"I'm not going to do that. Not until I know you're okay."

"I'm fine."

"You need help."

He ducked his head and snorted a laugh. "And what is it you think you can do? Gonna throw more photographs?"

Melodie squared her shoulders and puffed out her chest. "There's nothing I can do by myself," she said, "But I can tell someone. I can get – "

Tate grabbed her by her throat and slammed her into the lockers, then held her there with a firm hand on her sternum, fingertips bruising her collar bones. A few kids glanced up from their morning conversations, but none of them reacted. "Don't tell anyone," he said through gritted teeth, so close to Melodie's face that their noses touched.

"Tate – "

He shook her, making her head rattle against the steal. "Promise me," he said, then again, "Promise me you won't tell anyone."

Melodie closed her eyes, and Tate shoved her again. "Promise me!" His voice was increasing in volume.

Melodie should have let him scream, should have let him draw attention from the teachers, but that was the rational part of her again, and it was well overshadowed by the emotional part of her. "I promise," she said, just barely loud enough for Tate to hear.

HHH

He was sitting in biology lab two class periods later, picking at the organs of a dead cat with the corner of a ruler when a spark lit the powder keg that was Tate Langdon.

At the adjacent table, one boy jammed a test tube into the mouth of his partner's specimen. "Your cat sucks dick!" he announced proudly.

His partner yanked out the test tube. "Yeah, well your mom likes to suck dick!" He held his fist up to his mouth and stuffed his tongue into his cheek, wiggling the tip around obscenely.

Both boys laughed, and Tate lifted his head off his palm to study them intently.

_Tate's mom likes to suck dick._ It wasn't what was said, but it was what Tate heard, and it bounced around in his skull, creating pressure behind his eyes, making his ears ring. He put his forehead to the desk and covered his ears with his hands. _Tate's mom likes to suck Tate's dick._ They would sing it as he walked down the halls. He would be the punch line of all their jokes, and Tate didn't feel scared. Didn't feel embarrassed. He felt angry.

The teacher touched Tate's shoulder, and he looked blearily up at her. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah." Tate nodded, and he was okay, because he knew what he needed to do.

HHH

Tate sought out Melodie first, found her in her homeroom with a notebook open on her desk reviewing for an exam that would never start. The other students scattered, scrambling out of the way of Tate's slick black trench coat, his devilishly painted face, but Melodie just closed her notes. She rested her hands, palms flat atop her notebook, and sighed up at Tate, eyes sad, mouth frowning.

"Oh, Tate," she said.

Tate hated when she said his name like that, pity dripping from the single syllable like the crocodile tears dribbling from her eyes.

"You told," he said.

"I didn't." She shook her head.

"You told _everyone!_" His voice broke in the middle of the accusation.

"Tate – "

"Shut up!" He stuffed his hand under his coat and yanked out the handgun that was tucked into the waist of his pants. He shoved the muzzle against her forehead.

"I'm s – "

Tate pulled the trigger.

Three things died when Tate put the bullet between Melodie's eyes. His secret oozed out the hole in Melodie's brain and spilled onto the floor, seeping into the cracks between the tiles, never to be known by anyone who could do anything. The last traces of his sanity shot out the barrel of the gun and shattered upon impact with Melodie's skull, and Tate's faith in humanity, already bruised and shaky, crumpled like Melodie's body onto the floor, never to be resurrected, leaving nothing behind of Tate but the bitter ghost of a damned soul.

-END-


	4. Epilogue

**Cocksucker**_  
>Epilogue<br>_  
>"Are you Violet?"<p>

Violet jumped, slammed her locker shut, and shrieked when it revealed a girl her own age with a blood clotted hole in her forehead.

Melodie winced. "Quiet! You want them," she rolled her head toward the other students milling in the hall, "to think you're more of a freak than they already do?"

"'Cuz that's possible." Violet crossed her arms over her chest and leaned back against her locker. "What do you want?"

"You to deliver a message to Tate."

"Fuck that. You and the dead breakfast club can go to hell."

"We're already there."

Violet didn't have anything to say to that. She looked away from Melodie, fixing her eyes on the fire extinguisher in its glass case on a nearby wall. "I'll make you a deal," Violet finally said. "I'll deliver your message, if you tell me why he did it."

Melodie bit her lip. "It was my fault. That's all I can say. I promised him."

"Your fault, huh? Who were you to Tate? Like his girlfriend or something?"

"No one of importance. You gonna deliver my message or not?"

"Sure, ghost girl, why not."

"Tell him I'm sorry. I could have saved him, and I didn't."

Violet wrinkled her nose and adjusted the strap of her bag on her shoulder. "The fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"I can't tell you that. Will you tell him?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'll tell him, whatever, but if it's really your fault he's dead, I don't think 'sorry' is gonna cut it." She started to walk away.

"I know." The sadness with which she said it made Violet turn back around. "But I've apologized to all the others… and I don't think I can move on until he's forgiven me. And I don't wanna stay here anymore." Melodie clasped her hands in front of her and stared at her feet.

"Hey, you're tellin' me."

"So you'll tell him?"

"Sure." Violet started for class, then spun back. "Hey, wait! I didn't get your…" But Melodie had vanished. "…name."

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** This piece was so supposed to be finished here, but I'm kind of falling in love with Melodie and how her story could weave into Tate and Violet's 'lives'.


End file.
